


what does it mean, to make your own love?

by hellfire123456



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Ancient Greece, Dreams, Fluff, M/M, author banged this out in a day, inspired by the story of pygmalion and galatea, love that transcends time and space, mostly just brainrot, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29230785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellfire123456/pseuds/hellfire123456
Summary: “I’ll come back to ya, Sakusa Kiyoomi. Yer not alone. I’ll build a path straight to ya, and we’ll meet again. I promise ya.”And Atsumu fully intends to follow through on his promise, to forge a way right back to Sakusa. After all, love is made, is it not?-Atsumu meets Kiyoomi in a dream. He wants to make that dream a reality.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 7
Kudos: 55





	what does it mean, to make your own love?

**Author's Note:**

> hi everyone !!!! please enjoy this brainrot that i wrote in a day based on this beautiful [artwork](https://twitter.com/somikinnie/status/1356809144221769731?s=21) which was inspired by the story of pygmalion and galatea, the sculptor that fell in love with his own statue. this is unedited so go easy on me !! hope you enjoy this.

It’s in his workshop, surrounded by the cold of white, uncarved marble and the warmth of golden sunlight that Atsumu feels most comfortable. Outside, prostitution and misplaced lust reigns in the city of Cyprus - it is the definition of chaos and perversion. Atsumu has no interest in partaking in such things, no interest in the wares of the streets and the markets. He has no interest in traversing the outdoors of Cyprus because he knows he will find nothing but unfulfilled potential and mistakes waiting to happen out there.

His brother, Osamu, thinks differently. Osamu has been a merchant for only a few years, but it’s felt like forever since they parted ways to walk two different roads of life: while Atsumu lives in solitude with lifeless companions, Osamu thrives in the company of food and fellow companions, prospering on Cyprus’s streets. Atsumu has heard of Osamu’s fears countless times: a boulder might destroy his shop; an illness might take him away from his beloved, Suna; and Atsumu might never find love because of his reclusive nature.

But Atsumu opposes that notion - who says that he must go out into the world to find love? What does love even constitute, if one were to continue down that path? To Osamu, love is making food and seeing people enjoy it; love is travelling to the small town outside of Cyprus where their parents live in order to help them out on their farm; love is Suna Rintarou, a merchant’s son, who gave up everything just to be with Osamu. However, Osamu believes that love needs to be found. Atsumu thinks differently. To Atsumu, love is the care he puts into carving his marble statues; love is the sweat and blood he puts into finding his materials; love is the fluttering feeling in his chest that emerges when he finishes one of his works. To Atsumu, love is made.

It’s love, he thinks, that makes him wander into the cursed city of Cyprus in order to obtain new carving tools on the afternoon of a hot July day. He would usually have spare tools, made by none other than himself, at the ready, but the new cut of marble he was working with is so difficult that it broke not only one, but two of his finest picks. If anything, at least the ones he’s about to buy could tide him and his trade over for a few days before he had time to make more tools.

As Atsumu travels through the city, he begins to feel more and more dirty. The people on the streets look at him with a hunger that he doesn’t want to explore, and those that aren’t looking at him are too invested in conning others, exploring others’ bodies in the broad daylight. The women on the street have obviously been doused with gaudy scents, scantily clad in the barest of cloths in order to appeal themselves to travelers such as himself. Atsumu is reminded, with each step he takes, how vile the city is, how baffling it is that the people here feel the need to seek satisfaction by changing parts of themselves, a process that is dissatisfying in and of itself. Atsumu could never change himself to please others, but then again, there is no one to please in his isolated workshop.

Once he finishes shopping for his tools, he decides to take the longer, quieter road back to his home. That way, he can pop into Osamu’s market shop quickly and talk to his brother. It’s been awhile since they’ve seen each other.

“Sunarin!” Atsumu calls as he approaches the shop. “Samu here somewhere?”

“Yeah, he’s in the back,” Suna points to somewhere behind him. “He’s been grumbling about how you haven’t visited him in forever. Shut him up before I do.”

Atsumu chuckles and pats Suna on the shoulder before walking towards his brother’s office in the back of the shop. Lifting the curtain blocking the room, he sees Osamu hunched over a few papers, scribbling onto the parchments.

“Oy, scrub,” Atsumu says, causing Osamu to look up. “Heard ya missed me.”

“I dunno who told ya that, but they’re lyin’,” Osamu replies, standing up to greet his brother with a clap on the back. “How’ve ya been? Ya get out enough? Gone to a tavern or two?”

Ah, there it is. Osamu is trying to get him to change his views about Cyprus  _ again _ , even though he expresses his distaste for the city too often for it to be missed. Atsumu just gives him a tight smile, saying through gritted teeth, “Nah. I haven’t since the last time ya asked me, and I won’t. The taverns are gross, and they’re always full ‘o squealin’ pigs.”

Osamu sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Tsumu, ‘m just lookin’ out for ya. I know ya wanna have a family, ya told me when we were kids. I just want ya to be happy.”

“I am happy, Samu. So, can we drop this ‘n just have a good reunion fer once? ‘M only able to visit once in awhile, let’s make it count.”

Osamu gives him a look, one that basically insinuates that their meetings are so few and far between because Atsumu chooses to live far away from the town. Atsumu looks back just as steady, mentally willing his twin to drop the subject so that he  _ doesn’t _ have to walk home pissed off. After awhile, Osamu drops his gaze, going back to his desk and pulling a bottle of mead out of his drawer.

“Yer right. Let’s drink some, yeah?”

\------------------------------------

Atsumu leaves the Miya-Suna residence much later than he originally expected, the mead’s effect easily felt in the heaviness of his gait and the slowing of his pace. He makes it home just in time to see the full moon lay on top of the forest surrounding his cottage, and in his haze the celestial body almost looks like a god, draped across the treetops, curly hair in the form of dark, wispy clouds draping down his shoulders. But that must be the alcohol speaking.

As soon as he walks through his door, the need to sleep overwhelms him. Atsumu shrugs off his cloak, puts it on his rocking chair, and immediately crashes onto his bed. The sweat from the sweltering heat makes his pants stick to his legs, but at the moment the exhaustion outweighs the need to clean himself properly. He closes his eyes, and falls into the waiting arms of slumber.

At least, he thinks he does. When Atsumu opens his eyes again, he’s standing in a meadow full of pristine peonies and tulips, all varying shades of red. He turns around, and sees a gigantic oak tree in the distance. Something compels him to walk towards it, so he does, step after step. As he approaches, he notices a figure sitting at the tree’s foot with what seems to be a book in its hand. Atsumu takes another step, but doesn’t make it further as vines begin to wrap around his leg. Too occupied with his trapped limb, he doesn’t hear the shuffle of the shadowy figure moving to face him.

“Who are you?”

Atsumu stops struggling immediately, looking up to meet the face of the silvery voice. As soon as charcoal eyes meet golden ones, his breath is taken away.

There stands what Atsumu can only describe as a celestial being, clothed in a flowy, white robe similar to those of royals. On the man’s head is a golden laurel crown, delicately placed among shiny, ebony curls, two beauty marks dotting his delicate brow. Atsumu tracks his eyes down an ivory arm, and notices golden rings adorning each of the man’s slender fingers. Moving his eyes back up, he refocuses on the man’s face, adorned with petal-pink lips parted and wide eyes framed with thick lashes. The man stands with an aura of grace and strength, simultaneously fragile and sturdy. One could call him slender, but they could also testify to the power underneath those lean muscles. The man in front of Atsumu was the definition of an enigma, beautiful and mysterious. His fingers twitch, itching for a tool to capture the figure’s beauty.

“I said, who are you?” The figure takes a step away from Atsumu. He almost despairs at the now larger distance between them. “Nobody visits me here anymore. How did you get here?”

“Who are ya?” Atsumu asks in return. He has a million questions running through his head, but he’ll settle for asking this one first. “What’s yer name?”

The figure stills, fingers fidgeting as if nervous. When he answers, it’s so quiet that the wind could’ve easily carried it away if not for Atsumu’s straining ears. “.....Sakusa Kiyoomi. How did you get here, traveler?”

“Traveler?” Now Atsumu’s just confused. “I’m not a traveler. I just fell asleep ‘n now ‘m here. Is this a dream or somethin’?”

Sakusa’s eyes widen, and he steps a bit closer to Atsumu. “A dream, yes. But also a journey. You’re a traveler in the realm of dreams, Atsumu.”

So, at least one thing’s been cleared up. But it seems that with every answer presented, Atsumu is also dealt another question to ask. “How do ya know my name?”

“I’m a guide in this realm,” Sakusa starts, gesturing vaguely to the meadow surrounding them. “But no one has come here in awhile. You’re the first in….I’ve lost count as to how many days it’s been.”

Strangely enough, Sakusa seems almost melancholy at the admission. Atsumu would be elated to be in a place like this, far from anyone and everyone. No annoyances, no filth, just him and his thoughts. Maybe he’d miss Osamu and Suna, but besides that a place like this seems like paradise. He decides to voice his opinion, querying, “Ain’t this nice, though? There’s no one botherin’ ya. Ya can do whatever ya want without anyone bein’ up yer ass about it!”

“No, that’s not true,” Sakusa interrupts. “It’s lonely here, Atsumu. My mind is my only companion, besides the plants. And however lovely they are, they can’t speak to me, or look at me, or touch me. Being alone is a curse. You’re much too lucky not to experience it.”

Atsumu can’t grasp the concept of solitude being a curse. To him, Sakusa’s life sounds like a blessing, but apparently the other man would prefer a life resembling that of Osamu’s, or even his. Something about this makes Atsumu uncomfortable, and accompanied by Sakusa’s downcast expression it makes Atsumu feel downright anxious. He feels like he needs to say something, to alleviate this statuesque man’s pain.

“Well, ‘m here now, ain’t I? So technically, yer not alone anymore.”

Sakusa looks up. “And when you leave? I’m nothing but a guide, Atsumu, and you are none other than a traveler. We are just ships passing in the night, no more permanent than a storm and no more connected than the pieces of a broken vase. Wouldn’t you agree, that once you leave, I will be left with nothing but memories?”

The vines on Atsumu’s legs tighten, as if planning to root him to the ground with them. He suspects that they must be connected to Sakusa’s feelings, and finds it ironic that he is telling Atsumu that they aren’t permanent while trying to make him just that. “We don’t need memories, Sakusa. It doesn’t matter what happens when I leave, because the fact remains that I was here with ya at one point in time. Bein’ alone means havin’ no one, no one at all. But if I was here, at some point in time, then wouldn’t ya agree with me that it means yer not technically alone?”

From the corner of his eye, Atsumu can see Sakusa’s fist clench and unclench repeatedly. Probably trying to find an answer to Atsumu’s question. The look on Sakusa’s face had been turning stonier and stonier ever since Atsumu’s little monologue, but he chances one more question anyway: “Sakusa, why don’t ya let me out of these vines? ‘M not goin’ anywhere. I just wanna get closer to ya. Will ya let me?”

Atsumu reaches out a hand, offering it to Sakusa, presenting himself. Sakusa looks down and bites his lip, turning it so white that Atsumu is afraid he will draw blood. A trembling hand is unglued from Sakusa’s side, and slowly he begins to place it on top of Atsumu’s. Atsumu wiggles his fingers in encouragement, which makes the other man seem to move a bit faster. But the moment that their fingertips touch, the dreamscape begins to distort, the effect the same as if a stone were thrown into a lake. Sakusa looks up in panic, finally placing his hand on top of Atsumu’s, only for it to go straight through him rather than on him. Atsumu himself is alarmed, trying and failing to stop the dreamscape’s warping. Realizing that their efforts are fruitless, Atsumu takes a parting glance at this dream, at Sakusa’s face. And then he makes a promise.

“I’ll come back to ya, Sakusa Kiyoomi. Yer not alone. I’ll build a path straight to ya, and we’ll meet again. I promise ya.”

And Atsumu fully intends to follow through on his promise, to forge a way right back to Sakusa. After all, love is made, is it not?

\------------------------------------

The next day, Atsumu sets to work. With the image of Sakusa fresh on his mind and his heartbeat setting the pace of his work, Atsumu takes and he molds and he  _ makes _ . He spends hours selecting the perfect cut of marble, the perfect ivory to match Sakusa’s skin, and then he lugs it home. He spends hours sketching proportions and planning out this next piece, his magnum opus. Not once does he sketch a face, for he is too afraid of making a wrong line or erasing too much and tarnishing the memory of the most perfect thing he’s ever seen. Every chunk of marble he works is caressed and cherished, as one would do with a lover (Atsumu wonders if the touches are the same).

Days turn to weeks, and then a month has passed. Everytime he goes to sleep, he wishes to visit a meadow full of red flowers again, to visit a mirage turned reality. Each time he catches himself desiring such a thing, he muses that it’s the first time he’s wished to meet someone again that wasn’t related to him in some way. 

He never makes it back to the dreamscape.

So Atsumu must work with what he has: a heart full of desire, which has slowly morphed into some semblance of love over the months he’s worked, and a burning  _ need _ to fulfill the most important promise in his life. He knows that Osamu and Suna must be worrying at this point. It’s been ages since he’s last visited them; they usually don’t come to his workshop either, knowing how much he values his privacy. But through the delirium that sometimes clouds his mind, Atsumu acknowledges that his work is more important than his concerns.

Now, what delirium is he talking about, one might ask. All passion comes with a price, and for Atsumu what he must pay is his mind. Sometimes, when night falls and the full moon rises again (just like on that night) Atsumu goes outside and stands for hours, just to see if he can catch the illusion of the god (of Kiyoomi) he viewed so many nights before. Tears dot his sketchbooks, because he doesn’t know if he’s chasing a dream or if he’s working based off of absurdity, of nothing but a drunken stupor. 

But his doubts are always quick to dissipate once the image of a flowing smile and twin moles floats into his head.

It’s nearly half a year later when Atsumu starts carving the face of the sculpture. The first time he tries to make a mark on the unblemished material, his hands shake so badly that he nearly drops his sketching graphite. He’s spent so much time making sure that his sculpture is perfect that even the  _ thought _ of making a mistake now shakes him to his very core. The only way he regains his motivation is by giving a side glance to the completed body of the statue, beautiful in every sense. Except one - the body might be beautiful, but it isn’t Sakusa, no, Kiyoomi. Not yet.

So, Atsumu spends another six, tiring months working like a man deranged on his masterpiece. The eyes, the mouth, the nose,  _ everything _ must be perfect. Atsumu works day and night, literally putting pieces of him into the statue since he works until his fingers bleed and his nails chip. It’s been nine months since Atsumu’s met Kiyoomi, but he still remembers his face as if he just saw the man the other day. He intends to use that knowledge to fulfill his promise.

One might wonder why Atsumu toils so long and so hard for a man (not even - a dream) that he’s only met once. There’s an easy answer to that question: Kiyoomi is the first person to ever have triggered Atsumu’s desire for companionship, for affection, for  _ love _ . Before him, Atsumu was content to live alone, solely accompanied by the cold of his marble and the warmth of the sunlight streaming into a workshop. But after their meeting, Atsumu began to think that his marble was a bit too cold, that the sunlight would feel so much warmer if someone were experiencing it with him. His thoughts wandered to the possibilities of letting someone else enter his sacred space, of times where his arms would wind around a narrow waist and his chin would rest on a sturdy shoulder, right next to black curls.

So that’s why he works.

It’s a warm, July night blessed with the light of a full moon when Atsumu finishes his piece, the paragon of all that Atsumu wants. Finally, he is alone with his Kiyoomi, nothing but the moon as an intruder at such a moment. There’s a shift in energies, as if the universe is congratulating Atsumu for completing his endeavor. Illuminated by the moon’s pale light, the statue made in Kiyoomi’s likeness looks near ethereal. Atsumu reaches upwards, placing trembling hands on the creamy cheeks he never got to touch - it’s almost as good as the real thing, he thinks, if only what he was touching was just a bit warmer. He whispers a word of gratefulness to the gods, for accompanying him on his journey, for blessing him with the time and materials to do what he did. But looking at the statue’s blank eyes, Atsumu decides to whisper something a bit more.

“Gods, if yer up here hearin’ this, I really am grateful fer everything ya’ve provided me,” Atsumu starts. “Ya’ve never made me somethin’ that ‘m not, never given me anythin’ too little so that I was unhappy. ‘Ve never asked for anythin’, nothin’ in this world. I know it’s not possible to give me exactly what I want, but I ask that tonight, I get to see Kiyoomi once again. Just to tell him that ‘ve made sure that he’ll always be with me.”

Atsumu is answered with silence, but it’s nothing more than what he expected. Atsumu presses a trembling kiss onto the lips that he’s been thinking about for over a year, and departs to his bed. 

That night, he dreams of nothing.

\------------------------------------

A warm touch on his forehead. A soft pressure being placed on his lips. A light stroke on his right hand. Those are the things Atsumu registers as he slowly leaves the sleeping world and enters the waking one.

He opens his eyes to something that can be described only as a gift from the gods.

“Atsumu,” Sakusa Kiyoomi smiles, perching on the corner of Atsumu’s bed. “Welcome back.”

Atsumu smiles back. “Good morning, Kiyoomi.” 

“Good morning, my love. I’ve been waiting for you.”   
  
It’s in his workshop, surrounded by the cold of white, uncarved marble and the warmth of golden sunlight that Atsumu feels most comfortable. But it’s also surrounded by the weight of Kiyoomi’s arms on his shoulders, and the feeling of his lips against his that Atsumu feels the happiest. As he embraces the manifestation of everything he’s ever wanted, he can only think one thought.

_ Ah, this is what it means, to make your own love. _

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading this far! i do have some notes:
> 
> \- this is loosely based. originally i planned to make this a retelling but sakuatsu but i decided to take it a different way while writing.
> 
> \- this is very mythlike. obviously one doesn’t fall in love based off of one meeting and an entire year of separation, but greek myths are generally more exaggerated and dramatic, which is what i was emphasizing - a love that is so dreamlike and transcends all time and space rather than a realistic love
> 
> \- the peonies and tulips in the meadow both represent love, but they also represent good fortune and perfection, which is what atsumu believes kiyoomi brings him.
> 
> \- i wrote the opposing beliefs of atsumu and kiyoomi here (wanting to be alone vs wanting companionship) shifting as the story went on. atsumu began to want companionship due to his meeting with kiyoomi and kiyoomi became more okay with being alone because of what atsumu told him.
> 
> \- i have no clue how long greek statues take to make but i just said one year so it could be like “full circle”
> 
> \- atsumu is written as not liking the city and the sins in it because the irony of the story of pygmalion, who atsumu is based off of here, hated the prostitution in cyprus and therefore disliked women, but eventually fell in love with a woman - his own statue
> 
> \- sakusa is able to come alive in the end bc in the original legend aphrodite grants life to the statue, and atsumu prayed to the gods the night before omi came alive
> 
> i really hope you enjoyed this! as always, comments and kudos are always appreciated!! as always you can scream w me on [twitter](twitter.com/hellfire1515)


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